I read obsessively, sometimes poetry about girls and trees,
star-crossed lovers
old conversations
and strangers with beautiful thoughts.

When I paint pictures of poppy seeds and fruit
I like to think about humanity, and God,
or the way your face looks when you smile.
And when I get lonely, I write letters to boys in foreign languages that never get sent.
I worry too much about love
and too little about sleep.

When summer rolls by, and my palms begin to sweat,
it gets too upsetting to remain indoors.
I take to the park, sketchbook in hand,
and climb branches until I can see the ocean.
Kids are building sand castles,
waves are capping white and couples hold hands on the boardwalk.
Sunlight pours into this quiet old town,
spreading out through the statues and trees.
And our children come home, sprinkled stars on their noses
cheeks
shoulders
with laughter that radiates like gold.

I want to talk about peach blossoms and birds,
watch sunflowers grow, and open up their glorious buds to the world.
It’s the perfect scene for any artist,
and my pencil is ready to outline the coast
but I can draw only your hands.